The texture of the paper was invariably the same--like this one.

How had it come there?
Collusion with the coat boy at the club?
That was hardly probable.
Perhaps it had been there before he had entered the club for dinner--he remembered, now, that there had been several people passing, and that he had been jostled slightly in crossing the sidewalk.

What, however, did it matter?
It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to him mysteriously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of his--he smiled a little grimly--accomplice in crime.
He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it.

His fingers had not been at fault--it was one of hers.

The faint, elusive, exquisite fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it.
"I'd give," said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself--"I'd give everything I own to know who you are--and some day, please God, I will know." Jimmie Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost were an act of desecration--and extracted the letter from within.